


Who Are You, Really?

by JoulesIsIronic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Demon!Sheriff, Demonic Possession, Gen, Horror, Self-Sacrifice, Supernatural-verse/lore crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 06:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoulesIsIronic/pseuds/JoulesIsIronic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing sitting across from him isn’t his father. </p><p>He knows this, but that doesn’t make it any easier, because it’s wearing his father’s skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Are You, Really?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [otatop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/otatop/gifts), [Stormysaslytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormysaslytherin/gifts), [fantasyworld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantasyworld/gifts).



> Creepy, possibly triggery behavior from the demon. Not a happy ending, my friends.

The thing sitting across from him isn’t his father. 

He knows this, but that doesn’t make it any easier, because it’s wearing his father’s skin.

It sits across from him, artificial smile plastered on his father’s face. The dining room feels like an interrogation cell, but instead of handcuffs and locks, he’s trapped by the looming, but unspoken threat against his father’s life. The monster doesn’t need to flash its pitch-black eyes for Stiles to know; he can see it in the way it moves, in the way it talks – in how its lips smirk with malice, not affection, when its gaze flicks to the teen. 

Stiles has read about demons, about exorcisms, about blocking possessions; he was even able to overlook his complete, mind-numbing fear of needles to get the protective emblem tattooed into his skin. But it’s all a relatively recent development. Only a little over a month ago did he start delving into the section of the bestiary that included all things demonic and hellfirey. And that wasn’t nearly enough time to convince his dad to get a matching tat, no matter how much Stiles prodded with the excuse of father-son bonding.

And it knows that Stiles knows; probably noticed the moment Stiles’ eyes flickered with recognition and dread. Or maybe it could smell it on him, the panic and terror, in the same way his werewolf friends could. Either way, Stiles knows he’s right fucked. Has known from the moment it walked in, wearing his father like a glove.

If he thought he could make it, he’d run up to his room, fish out supplies from his box of supernatural odds and ends, surround the thing in mountain ash, and recite one of the several types of exorcisms he’s memorized. But there’s not a shot in hell that he’d even make it two steps from his chair. And even if he did, it wouldn’t do anything in the meantime to stop the demon from outright killing his dad – from taking a knife from the kitchen and gutting his father’s body. And Stiles can’t take that risk.

“You know what’s interesting?” the demon says with his father’s mouth. “A father’s love for his son.”

Its words take Stiles completely by surprise, and he blinks at the creature, clamping his mouth shut when he realizes its dangling open. “What?”

“You and your father, Stiles,” the demon replies condescendingly, moving its hands with intention, drawing Stiles’ eyes to the motions in a blatant show of power – of who’s in control. “It’s so fascinating. You’ve done nothing but cause him trouble. You’re always getting into things you shouldn’t be, always ending up at crime scenes where you don’t belong; even got him fired for a time, all because - from how he understands it - you decided to play a malicious little prank on the Whittemore kid. Not to mention you’re a mouthy little shit, and he knows that you lie to him constantly, and yet, he still loves you. It’s amazing. If I were him, I would have put you down ages ago, but your dear old dad seems to think you’re a special little snowflake.” It pauses in its machinations, giving Stiles a once-over. “It’s nauseating, how devoted you are to each other, but useful.”

It brings a finger to his father’s lips, nibbling at the padding of his thumb in a gesture that is too intimate not to be a barb. With every movement, its rubbing in that the Sheriff no longer has bodily autonomy, that the demon is the one in charge. The movements snap Stiles out of his fear-induced paralysis.

“What do you want?” he demands, unable to stop his anger from seeping into his voice. His hands – balled up in fists – are shaking, though he’s not sure if its rage, terror, or a mixture of both – probably the latter.

“What do you think, Stiles?” it taunts. He’s not sure where it gets the knife, but suddenly, just as Stiles feared, there’s a blade against his father’s throat, digging in enough to draw blood. 

Stiles is on his feet in seconds, and then down on his ass again just as fast. Something’s holding him still, something he can’t see. He knows that demons have telekinesis, but he hadn’t predicted just how powerless it would make him feel, being held still by an invisible force and unable to move of his own accord; a part of him thinks he should be familiar with the feeling, having been doused by kanima juice before and rendered immobile. It’s different, though, worse in some ways. When the kanima paralyzed him, his limbs were like jelly. Yes, he couldn’t feel them or move them, which sucked major balls, but no one else was moving him either. But with this, it feels like he was being held down, like his body is being forced into whatever position suits the demon’s fancy – like he’s a puppet.

“Let him go,” Stiles grits out, staring into what are now completely blackened eyes.

A cold pit wells in his chest and he wonders if his father is sentient for this, if he can feel his body moving and is unable to do anything to stop it. He hopes his father won’t remember anything, once Stiles finds a way to save him, because the man has enough fodder for nightmares as it is; he doesn’t need demonic-PTSD to add to the rest of the stressors in his life.

As Stiles strains against the demonic hold, it laughs, causing the knife to dig in that much deeper. “Do you honestly think I care about parading around in this worn-out meat suit? I have bigger fish to fry, and you, Honey, are my means to an end. So we’re going to make a deal.”

It steps around the table, coming to a stop beside Stiles’ chair so that the teen has to wrench his eyes as far sideways as possible to keep watching. The knife – which was really just for show – is dropped lazily on the table in front of him, still flecked with his father’s blood. Instead, callused fingertips grip the sides of his face, wrenching his head to look at the demon straight on.

“You know that was unnecessary, right?” Stiles can’t help snap, trying to ignore the flare of pain in his neck. “If you’d just taken off the magical demon whammy, I could have turned my head on my own, thank you very much.”

His comment is followed by a slap, leaving the taste of blood on his lips from where the bottom one split open. 

“It’s still Daddy’s turn for talking, Stiles,” it chides. “We’re going to make a deal, remember? I honestly don’t give a rat's ass what happens to your dear old pops. You know that, I know that, father-dearest knows that. I want the bigger prize: the boy with the spark.”

The pit is in Stiles’ gut again, more intense now as his brain catches up.

“You want me to break the seal so you can possess me,” Stiles realizes with dread, unable to stop himself from blurting it out as he thinks. The monster can’t cut open the tattoo on its own; it needs Stiles to do it. And what better way to get Stiles to cooperate than by threatening his dad?

“That’s my smart little boy. I don’t think Daddy ever gave you enough credit for your cleverness.”

Stiles ignores the barb. “How do I know you won’t kill my dad if I let you have me?”

It grins at him, a look too surreal and out of place when paired with the pitch-black eyes. “Scout's honor,” it says.

If Stiles could shake his head, he would. “Not good enough.”

Darkness flickers across the demon’s face and then the knife is back at his dad’s throat. “Here’s the thing, Darling. You say ‘no’ and your dad definitely dies; you say ‘yes’ and your dad only maybe dies – probably lives. Not that you’ll live long anyway if you say ‘no.’ I won’t exactly have any use for you if you don’t belong to me. Letting me in is your dad’s only chance, and your best bet at buying time – at giving yourself the hope of someday maybe escaping yourself. If you’re really good, I might even let you go once I get bored. How’s that sound?”

“Like the deal of a lifetime. I should buy a lottery ticket when I’m having luck like this. What a blessing.”

The demon presses the knife in a little deeper, and Stiles has to close his eyes when he says, quietly, “I’ll do it. Just let him go.”

When he opens his eyes, the demons is smiling him, twisting his father’s face into a gruesome caricature of a loving parent. All at once, the force leaves Stiles’ limbs and he almost crumbles to the floor at the abruptness of the relief. He clenches and unclenches his fingers, wanting to savor the feeling of it – the ability to control his body once again, possibly for the last time in his life.

He doesn’t have long to take advantage of his temporary freedom. Almost immediately, the knife is thrust into his hand. The briefest flash of using the blade to lash out at the monster passes through his mind, but it’s quickly rejected. He can’t hurt his dad – he has to protect him. No matter what the cost.

The tattoo’s placement was chosen, in particular, to avoid drawing attention to himself. He has to unbutton his jeans and tug them down at the side in order to see the symbol etched into his left hip, fighting down the rising bile he feels as the demon watches him, licking its lips, using his father’s eyes to stare at the exposed skin.

“We’re going to have such fun together, Stiles,” it mutters under its breath, and Stiles has to force down a shudder and bite the bullet.

With the tiniest amount of force possible, Stiles cuts through the edge of the seal. A small part of him hopes that if it heals after the demon possesses him, that maybe the creature will be forced out. The larger part of him knows that once the demon takes him, it’ll flay the skin where the tattoo is – that it won’t be stupid enough to take that chance.

He knows immediately (though a small part of him hoped it wouldn’t work) that the cut was enough to render the tattoo useless. The effect is instantaneous. 

The air between them engulfs in black smoke, pouring out of every orifice of his father that Stiles can see. There’s the briefest flicker of recognition on his dad’s face as the darkness leaves his eyes, and Stiles can see the horror in his expression, as he whispers a choked, broken, “Stiles?”

Then he, too, is drowned in blackness.

**Author's Note:**

> I've taken creative liberties; in this story I'm pretending that demons can't break anti-possession seals themselves -- only humans can do it.


End file.
